


all that glitters

by memento_amare



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Romance, Ballroom Dancing, F/M, Fluff and Angst, I am so sorry, Pining, Slow Dancing, ish? well they have parties, seijoh 4 friendships bc yes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-16 08:16:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29822046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/memento_amare/pseuds/memento_amare
Summary: Sometimes, he seems more glimmering gold than flesh and bones—but you couldn’t hate Oikawa Tooru, not even if you tried.
Relationships: Hanamaki Takahiro & Reader, Iwaizumi Hajime & Reader, Matsukawa Issei & Reader, Oikawa Tooru/Reader
Comments: 1
Kudos: 10





	all that glitters

You break from your trance, chest slightly heaving, fingers still hovering over the piano. The echo of the final note gives way to applause and giggles; the dancers bow and curtsy, tittering excitedly among themselves. 

These nights never lose their youth, even as the hours pass. After all, balls in this town are more like dreams than reality. 

From the side, your gaze sweeps over the crowd. He’s not hard to find. He laughs at some joke you can’t hear, head thrown back, a delicate flush resting high on his cheekbones. The chandelier’s amber glow rests kindly on his features. You tear your gaze away, heart squeezing (painful, treacherous). 

It hurts to look at gold—Oikawa Tooru is no different.

A hand taps your shoulder. You turn, smiling at the familiar face. “Hanamaki. Hey.”

“Bored yet?”

You snort. “That’s your pastime, not mine.” He laughs at that—a quick, warm thing—before fixing you with a familiar smile.

“Are you playing for the next one?”

“No, it’s for the quartet.”

His grin grows wider, and he holds a hand out for you. “Would you like to dance, then?”

You wrinkle your nose at him, though he corners of your lips are trying not to smile. “You aren’t wooing me, are you?”

He huffs. His gaze seems lackadaisical, but only to the unfamiliar. Makki waggles his fingers for emphasis. “You wound me. Just like old times, right?”

Nostalgia hits you then, warm and comforting. The suppressed smile blooms in earnest. “Ah. I can’t say no to that.” You glance at the rest of the ensemble for silent permission, relaxing when they nod encouragingly.

You accept his outstretched hand.

The strings begin with a waltz. Dancing with Hanamaki is familiar, and you let muscle memory take over while he narrates the party’s events in a voice brimming with sage conviction. You have to snort back your laughter while passing am uptight-looking elderly pair. By the disapproving glance the woman gives you, both of you failed. He continues to snicker, even minutes after. You step on his foot lightly, smiling sickly-sweet when he hisses in pain.

Here, with mirth bubbling in your stomach, the world is at peace. You’re thankful for it.

Makki bows as the dance ends, you curtsying in return. Your eyes meet, brimming with amused fondness. There’s always warmth in Hanamaki Takahiro. You match his grin and wave as he saunters away. For sure, if this weren’t a party, you’d be tussling him out of the room. Barely any time is wasted before a hand taps your shoulder, a little reminiscent of earlier. You turn, gasping sharply.

The light hits his face just right, his brown hair weaved with the golden glow of the chandelier. His eyes pin you on the spot. 

Oikawa Tooru smiles. “Would you do me the honor of a dance?”

Your heart flies up to your throat, burning hot. Swallowing, you school your features into a frown. “I just finished this one.”

“Then maybe after the next?” Silence. He pouts. “You hardly dance, and never with me,” Tooru grumbles. You clench your fists, resisting the urge to scream that it’s _not that simple, why is it you, why is it_ me—

“Forgive me, I must get back to the music. Maybe next time.” He raises a pointed eyebrow, mouth beginning to open. Without waiting for his reply (you _know_ he’s going to bring old blood up), you turn, muttering a quick _if you would excuse me_ before hurrying away.

You’re so tired of loving what you can’t have.

* * *

The quiet of the piano room is one of the great comforts in your life. 

The warm-up practices come first, fingers slowly loosening into the feeling of pressing and dancing over the piano. You’ve been told it was a gift, to wield notes as writers wield words—but such compliments, though well-meaning, are ignorant to the hours that have been dedicated to the craft.

The first piece: Debussy, Deux Arabesques.

The melody is soft, notes floating through the air aimlessly, almost as though they remain suspended in the air.

Once upon a distant childhood dream, you envisioned your own compositions echoing in concert halls. Not even that; to play in a great room of people, applause ringing from all sides, your name remembered among the greats. But as you grew, simply playing for those who love already gave the most satisfaction.

There’s a reason why you gravitate to Debussy or Ravel or Boulanger: the lack of resolution and the fleeting, ethereal nature of the songs resonate with you more than Bach or Beethoven. It reminds you of how you never really found where you wanted to be. The gap of a lost dream is hard to fill.

(You’re still searching, but Tooru probably never forgave you for letting those go.)

* * *

You’ve been avoiding him the whole dinner, quietly playing tune after tune on the piano. It’s not like your family could refuse the invitation, but you can at least keep him enough ways away. Music has been your solace, lately most especially. 

(Black and white, notes set in stone—careful treading that hides from gold.)

There’s a soft tap on the piano. You pause and look up, sucking in a soft breath. There’s a stubborn set to his jaw, the furrow in his brow letting you know that you can’t escape this that easily. The rest of your families are conversing across the room. Even the partial privacy of this moment is enough to send a fresh wave of heat to your cheeks. He doesn’t speak for several moments. Clearing your throat, you resume the piece— _Chopin, Berceuse in D-flat Major_. 

“Do you hate me?” The words are surprisingly sincere, and your fingers falter over the keys. You let your hands leave the instrument, arms hanging at your sides.

“Oikawa-kun.” The lamplight flickers over his gaze, brown flecked with liquid orange. “I don’t hate you.” 

“Then why won’t you dance with me?” his voice snags on frustration. You’d pin it on petulancy if you didn’t know better. It’s true, nearly every invitation has been turned down, all of it reasons you dare not tell him. That makes it even worse.

(There was no single moment to pinpoint or blame: simply years of odd familiarity, a slow pull only felt when it is too late. Now it’s not a pull but an all-consuming blaze, and distance is the only way you know to keep yourself alive.)

You taste the words as you speak them, sadness bitter against the back of your throat. “I just…don’t know if you’re serious with this.” Looking down, you repress the tremble in your hands.

Tooru lets the silence stretch even longer, lamplight casting a gentle glow on his expression. “I’ve never been half-hearted with you.”

You whip your head up, but he just bows, returning to the rest of the company. Gritting your teeth, you resist the urge to bang your hands on the keys. Your face is still burning: from him, his words, and from the shame of your half-lie.

(“Why do you do it?” You face your companion curiously.

“Hm?” Iwaizumi levels you with his usual expression, brows ever so slightly furrowed.

“He’s been chasing after you for forever now, in case you hadn’t noticed.” The bluntness sends a wave of heat to your cheeks. You shift your posture, resting both hands against the balcony.

“I-i know that.” The night air feels cool against your burning face, the faint smell of the pine trees of this town a familiar calm. They listen with gentle melancholy. “It’s just…too much for me.”)

The next notes are distracted, melody pulled along more by muscle memory than focused emotion. What Tooru wants, he’ll stop at nothing to get—you _know_ he’s serious. But how much is sincerity and how much is selfish desire?

Pressing on the keys a little more forcefully than usual, you wonder if you’ll burn first by lies or the truth. And by whose.

* * *

You should have known.

You should have _known._

Nobody could ever really refuse Oikawa Tooru—especially not you. The partners face each other, forearms held high and ever so slightly intertwined.

You just barely keep up with the dance, mind a jumbled mess. Horrible, horrible, _horrible_ —you’re hating every second of this. It’s a feeling something you’ve memorized by now: how every coherent thought burns away, almost as though you’d crumble if he’d so much as step a little closer. 

But he has to, and he does. 

Tooru spins you around before pulling you against him, faces close enough to feel his breath on your cheeks. The music swells, a growing crescendo that renders you helpless to its gravity. Each fleck of gold-dusted sunshine sears through your skin. The dance prompts you to move away. Your face burns, treacherously hot. 

It’s always been like this: a mess between seeking the rush and avoiding it, dangling hope in front of your eyes while knowing how far it really is—a dangerous dance, with you the marionette of your untameable heart.

The last note hangs in the air, a breathless jump into unknown land. Both your chests are softly heaving. His lips are slightly parted, eyes still trained on yours— _God,_ your heart hurts at the beauty of it all. Tooru’s hand is a feather-light yet white-hot brand on your waist. The words from last week lingering in the space between your bodies: _I’ve never been half-hearted with you._

(If your ropes crumble away at his touch, what then?)

Subtly, you disentangle yourself, hyperaware of the back of your neck as you curtsy. He bows along with the rest of them. As you turn around, Tooru grabs your wrist. “Would you dance with me again?” He looks hopeful. Your stomach is filled with butterflies. You hate it. You hate that you don’t hate it.

“We are not betrothed, and I must get back to the piano. But thank you, Oikawa-kun.” His face falls, but he composes himself. Lifting your hand, his lips graze the cloth covering your knuckles—The delicacy reaches your very bones. Without response, you curtsy once again and leave.

(You let him wreck you anyway.)

* * *

The news comes unexpectedly over dinner.

“We’re moving?” Your lower lip wobbles. Your mother’s eyes soften, and she places a hand over yours.

“i’m sorry dear, But your father has been promoted, and we must move to his new location.” 

For as long as you can remember, it’s been neighbour-like shenanigans and adventures: sneaking out in between lessons to dirty your clothes on the gardens, picking mushrooms in the undergrowth, hunting closets and mystery rumours under flickering lamplight. It’s been the dances of this town, not the richest but always the heartiest, losing yourself to music and cajole. It’s been hours after hours at the piano room, notes floating in suspended hopes and still-incomplete dreams.

It’s been your friends, your boys, this house, this town, _this life_ —

Your voice snags on emotion, despite your best efforts. “When?”

“Next month.”

The first thing you do is send letters.

* * *

Tooru is the second to come, after Makki who visited a few days ago in response to the news.

“Is it true?” Is the first thing he opens up with, and you turn, standing from your chair to greet him.

“Yes.”

He runs a hand through his hair, eyes growing more and more distressed. “can’t you stay?”

You frown. “There’s precious little that can make me stay. It would have to sway even my parents.” You’ve made your peace with it. Or, you’ve been trying.

He strides forward, closing the distance quickly. “I know a way. I can do it.” Unease grows in your stomach. Something isn’t right. “I thought—I just thought i’d have more _time_ —“

“More time to _what?_ ” Your voice trembles, every passing second an icy shard prickling through your skin. The thoughts fuse together: the glances you pretended not to notice, the invitations to dance, asking you for another one that night knowing the insinuations of such, the treacherous hope of reciprocity…

His first name leaves you like a plea. “More time to what, Tooru?” 

“To love you,” he whispers, and the whole world stops. His eyes are squeezed shut, fist clenched at his sides. When they open again, you’re trapped in chocolate brown, more bitter than sweet. “I love you, I’ve been loving you since forever, I wanted to _marry_ you—“

This ache is different: not blazing, but drowning. Either way, your lungs burn from Oikawa Tooru. You begin to shake your head. “No. You can’t do this. Not now.” You know he knows. He knows you know. Your love is the worst-kept secret of this part of town. 

Every emotion in his eyes is clear and fragile as glass. “We could do it. Say yes, and stay, and—“

“ _No._ I can’t marry you, I can’t.” The emotions pass on his face: shock, denial, heartbreak, pain. He’s always made it easy for you to break. Not today. “I can’t make you happy, and you can’t make me happy.”

“You don’t know that.” 

“I do! Look at us now, we’re already fighting, and it’s not just that—“

His voice grows, as though volume could sway you. “No, y-you keep throwing away what’s good for you, stop pushing me away—“

“And who are you to tell me what’s good for me?!” Tooru has been unreasonable all his life. You have been reasonable for all of yours. He’s done it now, setting fire to dry kindling. “You once presumed to talk of my music and now you force on me your opinions on love?”

Tooru’s flying—he’s not there yet, but he’s been flying, regardless—while you’re slowly realizing that you don’t wish for a place in the skies. You love him, but you can’t be like him. You can’t be with him. Not when your dreams are different.

(My heart is too fragile, it will die under your sun.)

“Please leave.”

* * *

Mattsun is next. He listens to you play. _Ravel, Miroirs: III. Une barque sur l’océan._ Your fingers hover over the piano at the last note, before letting them rest at your side. 

“Am I weird?” 

He blinks. “Asking me that makes you weird.” You glare at him, and he puts his hands up in defense. A thoughtful expression slowly comes over his face. “What made you think that?”

You sigh. “…Tooru brought back some old ghosts.” 

“Ah.” He sits up straighter. 

You’ve been through this with him before. Your dream of concert halls fizzled out not because of the realities of the world, but by the realization that you found your fulfillment in the happiness of those around you—not in breadth but in depth.

“Not everyone can be like Oikawa.” He shrugs, but his voice is sincere, the words slow and carefully picked. “Not everyone has to be.”

 _Not everyone has to be._ Tears spring at your eyes. You suppress a sniffle; he probably catches it anyway. He won’t offer you his handkerchief out of consideration—only if it gets too much. He knows it won’t. You like that about him.

“Thank you, Mattsun.”

“Of course.” 

The conversation continues normally after, as it always does. You nag enough for him to play a piece with you too ( _I’m rusty_ , he warns). You don’t care. You like that about him.

* * *

Iwaizumi is last. You didn’t know who would be, not that it matters. But you’re glad that it’s him, somehow. 

He asks you where you’ll go, how far it would be, if he (all of them) can visit, if he (all of them) can write, if you would write back. You play his favorite piece—Mendelssohn, not on your top list, but he has good taste. 

He takes you to the balcony. The cool scent of the pine trees almost brings you to tears. You’ll miss this. Dearly. “I heard about what happened.” 

You wince. “Did you tell him what I told you once?”

Iwaizumi raises an eyebrow. “No. Would you have wanted me to?”

“…I don’t know.” The wind blows softly, ruffling your clothes. “I don’t regret my choice,” your voice tinges with sadness, “though it hurt me to say it.” 

Tooru doesn’t need a foothold if what he seeks is a taste of heaven. He’s too far gone; Oikawa Tooru may not be gold, but he will die trying to be. He’ll forego becoming Icarus to be the Sun himself.

“…I know.” You know he does. Hajime tugs you close, letting you rest your head on him. If the cloth on his shirt grows damp, he says nothing. The wind continues to blow with the scent of pine trees.

* * *

You hate many things about Oikawa Tooru, but you don’t hate _him_. You hate how you know the cracks and crevices under his skin; how he works himself to the bone, almost as though he’s shedding mortality for a taste of glory. You hate how you’ve seen it all and loved him through it all. Oikawa Tooru is, in equal measure, the strongest and most fragile man you know. You couldn’t hate him even if you tried.

But out of all these, you hate this the most: how in a different world, you could have found it in yourself to do the same—break through every barrier with grit and your bare hands. 

Here is the truth at the heart of it all: you don’t hate Oikawa Tooru. You envy him.

* * *

You aren’t a family with great means, but your household managed to arrange a last party to mark your farewell. The piano is yours to play as you please, but the main music goes to the ensemble, so you may dance tonight.

The first invitation is the most surprising.

“This is rare,” you drawl, enjoying your faint amusement mirrored in his dark eyes. Matsukawa rolls his eyes good-naturedly.

“Ah, come on, stop being difficult.” You take his hand, of course. The music is slow and leisurely, and you glide through the room with the other partners. He’s a good dancer, too; you giggle when he twirls you through one particularly breathless note. Conversation is made in low whispers, but sporadic. He remarks that the piano player tonight is good, but not as good as you. You slap his arm. 

And if at the end, his lower lip wobbles when he presses it to your knuckles, you don’t mention it. You know he likes that about you.

* * *

Iwaizumi is the second to offer you a hand, another one that hardly ever dances. Your heart swells at these boys. _God,_ you’ll miss them. He doesn’t really like talking during the dance, but his actions speak enough.

Dancing with him is like being one with the earth. It’s measured and clean, grounded in a way that’s so utterly _Iwa_ that you can smell pine trees even in the middle of the ballroom. 

“We’ll be happy.” You look at him with a soft smile. “I’m bringing it into existence.” He startles a little, brows furrowing briefly before he relaxes. The corner of his lips tug upwards.

“We will be.” He squeezes your hand. 

You remember where your dreams truly lie. We may not fly, but we will grow.

* * *

Your third is the most familiar. Hanamaki grins, bright and warm. you take his hand without question, grinning back.

Perhaps the world is kind to you today. The melody is light and airy, but with the right amount of depth: perfect for you and Hanamaki. You know each other well; the turns and little embellishments are done with practiced ease. It’s one of the things you’ll miss the most.

When he looks up after his bow, his eyes are warmth rimmed with sadness. “Just like old times, right?”

“Indeed.” Tears prickle at your eyes. His hands come around you, warm just like the rest of him. You wrap your arms and squeeze. “I’ll miss you, Hiro. write to me?” (It’s alright—the party is small. This is familiar company.) 

His hug tightens. “I’ll write _and_ visit.”

* * *

Try as you might, the last person is nowhere to be found, even through all three dances. You haven’t seen Tooru, only indistinct flashes of brown hair and eyes. You reason that it could be anyone, but your gaze has lingered on him across rooms in parties too many times to know otherwise.

Makki is the one who tells you. You quickly excuse yourself to the piano room.

The door creaks as you open it. Tooru turns, the moonlight passing through the translucent white curtains, hitting his face. His fingers pause over the simple _Minuet in G_. He has long and lovely fingers, but never really played. He’s probably been here this whole time. Tooru stands.

“Do you hate me?”

“I never have.” You remain by the door. The sounds of the party are a distant tune.

“Did you think i wasn’t serious?”

“I never did.” None of the lamps are on. In the dark, he looks almost within your reach. Still, you still don’t move.

He exhales, gaze turning upwards to the ceiling. The soft shines on the pale column of his throat. The tears threaten to choke you, but you soldier on.

“Even if I didn’t have to leave, I’d have let you go anyway.” The bomb drops, but perhaps the destruction couldn’t have gotten any worse anyway. “I’m sorry.”

He chokes a laugh, sharp and a little broken. “I think I’m beginning to understand.” Your chest twists. It scares you how much you’d be willing to give: to kiss the wrinkles on his brow, or worship the calluses on his fingertips—remind him that he’s everything he needs and more.

Everything about him glitters, but Oikawa Tooru is flesh and bone, not glimmering gold or fiery sun. For tonight, at least, the moon makes it so. You’ll make it so.

He looks up at you from the piano chair, watches you extend your hand for him to take. “Would you dance with me again?”

His voice softens. “of course.”

(And you should know—though perhaps you don’t—that Oikawa Tooru could never really refuse you, nor could he ever hate you. Even if he tried.)

There’s no music. The party is a distant hum, but here is all that matters. You mirror the movements from that one dance, forearms high and just barely intertwined. Skin grazes skin; your eyes touch each other more. He sways you gently, slow twirls and breathless dips that make you giggle softly in his arms. Pale moonlight makes his smile softer.

You dance to the tune of what could have been, what could never have been, and what will inevitably be.

_(If I learn desire, it will not be under your shadow. But thank you for showing me the light.)_

His eyes tell you he understands. And if the earth kisses the sun that night, that’s only for the moon to know.


End file.
